Read Online The Taqwacores by Michael Knight - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Knight
Tags: Fiction, Coming of Age
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me.”
“All I see is an old Subway sub.”
“Give it to me.” As I brought it to the front seat the smell hit us hard. Jehangir took the sandwich still in its wrapper and held it at a distance, waiting for the moment —which turned out to be a red light with us in the straight/right-turn lane and an SUV in the left-turn-only Jehangir quickly unwrapped his sandwich. As the light turned green he launched it at the side of the SUV and peeled out with a right turn down Forest Ave, both of us howling with ecstatic immaturity.
Eventually we hit the 1-90 and went to a massive mall-sized flea market, Jehangir looking more than slightly out of place among the flea culture but it was easy to keep track of him by his high hair. Many vendors peddled artifacts from our childhoods: Star Wars figures, heavy rubber wrestling dolls, He-Man, G.I. Joe, baseball cards of guys like Jose Canseco who had their prime when I was ten years old. Jehangir Tabari spotted an old Iron Sheik figure with most of the paint worn off his pants. “Look at his pointy boots,” Jehangir said with a big smile. “I need some boots like that, wouldn’t that shit be hot?”
While most vendors offered miscellaneous grab bags of second-hand merchandise, some were specialized in their field. One sold only bright orange hunting clothes. Another just old music
tapes. One guy’s whole inventory consisted of big three-by-five flags, an example of each hanging around his booth. He had the black downtrodden silhouette POW/MIA flag, an American flag with giant Native American chief in the middle, an American flag with Harley Davidson in the middle, a regular American flag, a Don’t Tread On Me, a Confederate X. “I think this is where Umar bought his Kashmiri flag,” mused Jehangir sarcastically.
You can walk around a big flea market like that for what seems like hours, completely lose your concept of time, get a little dizzy and grow accustomed to an entirely new sort of air: the flea-market aromas of an enclosed environment filled with goods that had aged in thousands of households.
“Look here,” I said, calling Jehangir from the stack of used VCRs he had been admiring. I pointed to a wall of Osama bin Laden t-shirts. One had him in the cross-hairs. Another had him in a toilet. Another had the top of his head resembling a penis.
“Ever hear of a band in California called Osama bin Laden’s Tunnel Diggers?” Jehangir asked.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Real funny guys, buncha wise asses. They’re Islam’s NOFX, you can say.”
“Cool.”
While pulling out of the flea market’s parking lot Jehangir arrived at the idea to visit Amazing Ayyub at his new job.
“I bet he doesn’t have a shirt on,” he said over the scratching and popping of his bad speakers as GBH’s “Sick Boy” came on. “I bet you five bucks.”
Sure enough Ayyub had his KARBALA right out there for all to see when we swung up to the pump. Upon recognizing the car he jumped onto the hood and started dancing with loud stomps that would have had Jehangir fuming if Jehangir were the type to car about dents and scratches. Amazing Ayyub hopped off and
Jehangir reached out his window for a handshake.
“What the fuck are you crazy guys doing?” Ayyub asked, leaning on the driver’s side window to peer in on us.
“Just hit the flea market,” Jehangir replied.
“Oh, no shit,” gasped Ayyub. “I wish I’da known that, I woulda went with you guys.”
“But you’re working,” I answered.
“Fuck that,” snapped Ayyub. “Fuck this place, man, pumping gas n’ shit. I’d make more money giving handjobs in Niagara Falls.”
Just then a group of high school guys pulled up to the pump opposite ours in a Jeep Grand Cherokee with obnoxious rap-metal blaring. Ayyub excused himself and walked over. Perfect skin, perfect teeth, Abercrombie shirts. The one riding shotgun inexplicably wore a golden football helmet. Amazing Ayyub pumped their gas and took the money. As
“All I see is an old Subway sub.”
“Give it to me.” As I brought it to the front seat the smell hit us hard. Jehangir took the sandwich still in its wrapper and held it at a distance, waiting for the moment —which turned out to be a red light with us in the straight/right-turn lane and an SUV in the left-turn-only Jehangir quickly unwrapped his sandwich. As the light turned green he launched it at the side of the SUV and peeled out with a right turn down Forest Ave, both of us howling with ecstatic immaturity.
Eventually we hit the 1-90 and went to a massive mall-sized flea market, Jehangir looking more than slightly out of place among the flea culture but it was easy to keep track of him by his high hair. Many vendors peddled artifacts from our childhoods: Star Wars figures, heavy rubber wrestling dolls, He-Man, G.I. Joe, baseball cards of guys like Jose Canseco who had their prime when I was ten years old. Jehangir Tabari spotted an old Iron Sheik figure with most of the paint worn off his pants. “Look at his pointy boots,” Jehangir said with a big smile. “I need some boots like that, wouldn’t that shit be hot?”
While most vendors offered miscellaneous grab bags of second-hand merchandise, some were specialized in their field. One sold only bright orange hunting clothes. Another just old music
tapes. One guy’s whole inventory consisted of big three-by-five flags, an example of each hanging around his booth. He had the black downtrodden silhouette POW/MIA flag, an American flag with giant Native American chief in the middle, an American flag with Harley Davidson in the middle, a regular American flag, a Don’t Tread On Me, a Confederate X. “I think this is where Umar bought his Kashmiri flag,” mused Jehangir sarcastically.
You can walk around a big flea market like that for what seems like hours, completely lose your concept of time, get a little dizzy and grow accustomed to an entirely new sort of air: the flea-market aromas of an enclosed environment filled with goods that had aged in thousands of households.
“Look here,” I said, calling Jehangir from the stack of used VCRs he had been admiring. I pointed to a wall of Osama bin Laden t-shirts. One had him in the cross-hairs. Another had him in a toilet. Another had the top of his head resembling a penis.
“Ever hear of a band in California called Osama bin Laden’s Tunnel Diggers?” Jehangir asked.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Real funny guys, buncha wise asses. They’re Islam’s NOFX, you can say.”
“Cool.”
While pulling out of the flea market’s parking lot Jehangir arrived at the idea to visit Amazing Ayyub at his new job.
“I bet he doesn’t have a shirt on,” he said over the scratching and popping of his bad speakers as GBH’s “Sick Boy” came on. “I bet you five bucks.”
Sure enough Ayyub had his KARBALA right out there for all to see when we swung up to the pump. Upon recognizing the car he jumped onto the hood and started dancing with loud stomps that would have had Jehangir fuming if Jehangir were the type to car about dents and scratches. Amazing Ayyub hopped off and
Jehangir reached out his window for a handshake.
“What the fuck are you crazy guys doing?” Ayyub asked, leaning on the driver’s side window to peer in on us.
“Just hit the flea market,” Jehangir replied.
“Oh, no shit,” gasped Ayyub. “I wish I’da known that, I woulda went with you guys.”
“But you’re working,” I answered.
“Fuck that,” snapped Ayyub. “Fuck this place, man, pumping gas n’ shit. I’d make more money giving handjobs in Niagara Falls.”
Just then a group of high school guys pulled up to the pump opposite ours in a Jeep Grand Cherokee with obnoxious rap-metal blaring. Ayyub excused himself and walked over. Perfect skin, perfect teeth, Abercrombie shirts. The one riding shotgun inexplicably wore a golden football helmet. Amazing Ayyub pumped their gas and took the money. As
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